


Supernova

by ghostystarr



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, Miya Four, Mutual Pining, Post-Time Skip, Slow Burn, fellas is it romantic to stargaze with a teammate?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:48:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27788503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostystarr/pseuds/ghostystarr
Summary: Kiyoomi's never tried to count the stars because once he starts something, he never stops. He'd stare at the sky until the end of time. The same concept applies to falling in love.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 23
Kudos: 115





	Supernova

**Author's Note:**

> "Do not complain beneath the stars about the lack of bright spots in your life."  
> ― Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson

Sakusa Kiyoomi grows up in Tokyo. Lights and smog pollute the night sky until it’s just a hazy black canvas, hanging heavy over the city as the years go on. He’s too distracted by the bustle of people passing him on the streets and the germs that waft off them to look anywhere but at the ground anyways. The most he even sees the stars are in movies and textbooks. He learns the constellations. He can point them out on maps and screens, but he never thinks to look up and trace the shape of the real thing.

His parents are romantics. They laugh and claim their love was written in the stars, a product of colliding cosmic forces.

In the movies, he hears more of the same,  _ “I love you to the moon and back.” _

_ “You are my sun.” _

_ “Star-crossed lovers…” _

Kiyoomi takes the metaphors for what they are and never anything more. He doesn’t really think about love, either, beyond the times he says the words when his mother calls him at university. He knows she’s worried about him living by himself, and Kiyoomi doesn’t have the heart to tell her that he prefers it this way. Not because he disliked his family, but it was much easier to keep things organized to his standards. He finds a place further out from the city center where there’s less noise keeping him awake and less emissions clogging his lungs.

“It’s a good neighborhood,” his landlord says casually as he signs the lease. “You can see the stars real nice out here, too.”

University is overwhelming. Between classes and volleyball, there’s no time for anything else. Not that he was looking for anything else, anyways. There are few awkward times where someone slips him a phone number or asks him out, but Kiyoomi always declines. Beyond Komori, and the few friends he managed to pick up in high school, there’s no one.

Volleyball is probably the only space that Kiyoomi can define as love. It’s certainly the only time he feels impassioned, enough so to plan his life around. The drive of a game gives him both the sense of taking control and letting go.

Magazines and blogs call him an ever-rising star. Japan’s top collegiate spiker, destined to keep soaring right through the professional league and into the international court. So, Kiyoomi watches streams of various V.League games to get an idea of what teams pique his interest. The Adlers predictably take season after season. It’s thrilling to watch them play, and sometimes Kiyoomi will send a congratulatory text to Ushijima Wakatoshi. Ushijima’s texts are always trite and honest. It’s that transparency that makes him easy for Kiyoomi to talk to, in their own way of simply commenting on each other’s games.

One day, as Kiyoomi works through an essay that isn’t due for another three weeks, he puts on another team’s game. The commentary is relaxing background noise for studying, but soon he finds himself getting caught up in the announcer’s excitement. His fingers pause over his laptop as he watches a replay of the last point. The setter moves like clockwork or like a waiting bomb, steady and explosive all at once as he takes a shaky pass and tunes it into a perfect toss, right to the spiker’s waiting hand in the blink of an eye. The ball slams home before the other team can even react. Kiyoomi watches the setter turn, fists in the air excitedly as he beams at his teammate.

_ “And Miya continues to prove why he’s an internationally-desired setter,”  _ the announcer drawls.  _ “What an absolutely nasty play by the Black Jackals.” _

_ “They call it the ‘Miya Touch’,”  _ another adds.  _ “His tosses turn any spiker into gold.” _

Kiyoomi watches Miya Atsumu sink back into focus and idly wonders when he changed his hair color. The whistle blows, the Black Jackals serve the ball into play, and - though Miya doesn’t do much this time - Kiyoomi’s eyes follow his jersey anyways.

The commentary shifts away from Miya Atsumu and so does Kiyoomi’s attention. His types at a rapid pace, almost impatiently.

Graduation doesn’t come when he finishes that paper or the next or even several after that. But he starts to watch more Black Jackals games, reads up on their rosters and player interviews. He learns that Miya Atsumu has an interest in photography, and a quick Google search reveals his Instagram.

Kiyoomi scrolls through post after post, mildly surprised at the lack of selfies. Most of the pictures are, in fact, of other people or scenery with cheeky descriptions. His twin brother behind a restaurant counter, caught mid-laugh with a ball of rice between his hands.  _ (You’re not supposed to laugh at customers, Samu! Yelp will hear about this.) _ Bokuto Kotaro, posing with his fingers curled like claws at his cheeks.  _ (@a_keiji Please show me where his volume button is.) _ Suna Rintarou, looking annoyed and tired with a Starbucks coffee in either hand.  _ (Sometimes breakfast is just 2 coffees at 7am after a long night of binging New Girl.) _

There are a few that align more to what he expected - tongue out, hair purposefully messy, tight clothing that screams,  _ “Attention! Give me attention!” _ Miya still seems to be the same loud kid that he went to training camp with. How annoying.

As he continues to scroll, his thumb strays a little too far to the left and a little red heart pops up. He freezes. Then scrolls back up just enough to see which photo he left an accidental like on.

Of course. Of  _ course,  _ he would like one of the fucking selfies. Miya Atsumu’s hooded eyes and half-smirk are almost mocking him as he poses in the bathroom mirror with nothing but a silken robe drawn loosely around him. It’s risque, terrible, and so unbearably cliché that Kiyoomi physically recoils. He unlikes the post, but only feels worse when he notices that the post is from seven months ago.

“Ew,” he mutters and drops his phone. “Oh, gross.”

Just as the initial horror is wearing off, Kiyoomi’s phone pings with a notification. He gets as far as peeking at his Instagram’s private inbox, spotting Miya Atsumu’s profile grinning back at him, before he’s backing out and deleting the app right off his phone.

A few hours later, the curiosity weighs too heavy and he reinstalls. Stares at the message for a full minute. And then he’s calling Komori before anything’s fully processed.

Komori answers on the fifth ring. “Sakusa?” he grumbles. “Hello?”

“Miya Atsumu just messaged me on Instagram.”

A pause. “Miya… Atsumu?” Another pause. “I didn’t know you were a fan.”

“I am  _ not _ a fan,” Kiyoomi hisses. “I was just… on his profile.”

“What?”

“Because of his interview.”

“Huh?”

Kiyoomi scowls at the wall. “Komori.”

“Okay. Walk me through it, Sakusa. Walk me through it.”

He sighs impatiently. “I’ve been watching the first division games. Miya gave an interview about being into photography.”

“So you… checked out his Insta?”

“And then I accidentally liked one of his shitty selfies from  _ months _ ago.” Komori, with tremendous audacity, laughs. “And why is that funny?”

“B-because,” Komori wheezes, “I’ve never heard you get so worked up over a guy before.”

“That’s not… Don’t word it like that.” He blanches. “I’m already traumatized.”

“Relax. It’s not the end of the world. So what if he thinks you liked one of his thirst selfies? It’s not like you’re going to see him anytime soon.”

Kiyoomi breathes out. That’s true. Miya Atsumu is just someone he played against in high school. He’s the smug setter at training camp that expected every spiker to jump through a hoop for his tosses. “If I even see him at all.”

“Well, if you’re still gunning to join V.League next year, there’s a chance you’ll play against him. Any teams you’d like to try for?”

“I don’t know yet.” His eyes flicker to his laptop.

“Yeah, me neither.” Komori yawns. “Now, if we’re all settled here, I’m gonna go back to sleep. Try to schedule your next gay crisis before midnight, okay?”

Kiyoomi hangs up on him.

As the call screen disappears, his Instagram inbox reappears. Miya Atsumu’s message waits for him:  **sakusa-kun!!! what fate brought u to my insta??**

_ More like an omen,  _ he thinks and leaves the message on read.

As he completes his final season of volleyball in the collegiate league, he’s awarded the title of MVP. Several Division 1 scouts seek Komori and him out. Komori signs with EJP Raijin. While Kiyoomi hears from their recruiters, too, he eventually gets stuck between two offers: one from the Adlers and one from the Black Jackals.

He spends far too long weighing the decision. He watches their games and looks up forum discussions and negotiates with the respective scouters. He tallies the pros and cons of each team. It’s horribly balanced, hinging on a single question that he keeps returning to. One that he desperately asks Komori over the phone one stormy February night, utterly at wits end.

“Who do you think is the best setter in the league?” Kiyoomi continues on before Komori can answer. “By most accounts, Kageyama Tobio is the most precise. He’s a more balanced player, his technique is refined, and he’s got serves and blocks to back it up.”

“Okay. So it’s Kageyama.”

Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose. “But.”

“But?”

“Miya Atsumu is all that and has more experience. He’s kind of obnoxious, but he’s reliable.”

He groans. “You called me this late, again, to talk about your crush on Miya Atsumu?”

“I’m talking about which team I’ll be signing with,” Kiyoomi hisses.

“You mean you declined our team?” Komori huffs. Pauses. “Who’s paying more?”

In the end, Kiyoomi signs onto the MSBY Black Jackals because it’s convenient, because Osaka is a change from Tokyo, and because its roster was boasting some strong names. Strong names that belong to equally strong personalities.

Bokuto Kotaro has grown confident and steady. His plays always leave the crowds in awe. Entire stadiums are caught in his gravitational pull.

Hinata Shoyo has gotten stronger and smarter. He’s a sunspot erupting when it’s least expected, reaching out to some unknowable height.

And, Miya Atsumu. Kiyoomi isn’t sure what he is yet, but it’s definitely just as unearthly as the rest of the team.

“Kusa-kun!” Atsumu greets at their first practice. He’s glowing and smug and Kiyoomi already questions his decision. Atsumu leans against the net pole, arms crossed and teeth sharp. “What fate brought ya to my team?”

Kiyoomi flashes a dark look at him. “I’m just unlucky like that.”

Atsumu barks a laugh. “You’ll be singin’ a different tune before the day is up. Promise.”

He doesn’t give a reply to that, just turns on his heels and waits for their captain to start practice.

“Why don’t you show us what you’ve got, Sakusa?” Meian offers. “Nothing builds a team faster than a mock game.”

Atsumu’s arm flies up. “I call dibs on Kusa-kun’s team!”

Kiyoomi’s face crumples. “Don’t call me  _ Kusa.” _

“What about Kiyo-kun?”

“That’s  _ worse.” _

Hinata bounces in between them, both arms in the air and beaming. It’s his debut practice as well, but he already seems to have better rapport with much of the team. “Oh, me too! I wanna be on their team!”

Atsumu beams. He wraps an arm around Hinata’s shoulder and hulls him in close. “Oh, how I’ve waited for this day, Shoyo-kun!”

Bokuto crosses his arms and grins down at Hinata. “In that case, I’ll go on the opposite team. It’s been a while since Hinata tried to block me.”

Hinata shoots finger guns at him. “Bring it on!”

Shion sighs, hands on his hips and head shaking. “Youth these days.”

Barnes pushes Shion toward the opposite side of the court. “Now, now, let the rookies have fun.”

“I am  _ not _ a rookie!” Atsumu shouts after them. “Hey! Inu-san!”

“Rock, paper, scissors for who sets for Bokuto,” someone else whispers.

Atsumu slinks back to Kiyoomi’s side. “Don’t worry, Kiyo-kun. With me, yer guaranteed to win against those goons.”

Bokuto claps Atsumu on the shoulder. “Do your best, Tsum-Tsum! Tell ya what: I’ll go easy and only hit straights today, okay?”

“Bokuto,” Atsumu’s smile twitches, “ya have ten seconds to get to yer side of the court.”

Bokuto laughs. “Don’t worry,” he says to Kiyoomi. “He doesn’t bite. Well. Actually, he did bite me once. But, to be fair, we were drunk.”

“Okay! Bye-bye, Bokkun!” Atsumu shoves Bokuto forward. “Don’t even bother shootin’ straights because Shoyo will just pick ‘em up.”

Hinata flexes. “That’s right!”

Kiyoomi’s regret grows, but he follows the others onto the court and listens as they argue over a starting order. For all the noise and arguing beforehand, the gym goes silent as they take their places and shift into game-mode. Kiyoomi’s almost taken aback by how quickly the atmosphere charges up.

The match is even better. It’s a simple scrimmage. No one keeps score. They just chase after the ball like it’s never coming back. And, the first time Kiyoomi jumps, Miya sends the ball to him with such grace that Kiyoomi barely has to work. He slams down the ball with enough force that it soars over their heads after it bounces off the ground. Atsumu’s smirk is stitched back into place.

“A bit low,” Kiyoomi says, just to be difficult.

To his surprise, Atsumu simply preens. “Jump higher next time, then.”

_ Smug bastard, _ Kiyoomi thinks. The thing is, though, that the next time he jumps, he does go higher. The ball meets his hand like a dream and goes down like a nightmare. Meian looks startled from the other side of the net then breaks into a grin. “That was  _ nasty, _ Sakusa.”

Atsumu is exuding hauteur and confidence, but Kiyoomi can’t even bring himself to feel annoyed.

It’s going to be an interesting season.

.

“How was day one?” Komori asks later that night over FaceTime.

“Good,” he answers honestly. “It’s a strong team.”

“Uh-huh.” He can practically hear his cousin’s smile. “And with the added bonus of your favorite setter.”

“God, you sound just like him.”

_ “Is that him?” _ another voice asks from out of view.

Komori looks to the right. “Yeah. I’ve got him on now. Here.” He angles the camera to show another person in a Raijin’s hoodie with fluffy hair and a bored expression.

“Wait. Who is that?” Kiyoomi squints.

“Suna Rintarou,” Komori introduces. “He’s a fellow rookie on Raijin.”

Suna nods. “Sakusa Kiyoomi. Been a while.”

“You were on Inarizaki’s team, right?” Kiyoomi rarely got completely shut-out in high school, but, when he did, it was mostly because of Suna Rintarou.

“I’m flattered you remember me,” he says. “I’m looking forward to seeing how much your spikes have improved since high school. Kiyoomi bristles, but Suna continues, “I hear you’re playing with Atsumu.”

“That’s right.”

Suna laughs heartily. “Good luck.” With that, he walks away, still chuckling to himself.

Komori blinks. “I’m sure he meant that genuinely.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Oh, I’m sure he did.”

.

Kiyoomi’s made a starter. When he wears his official jersey, sees his name printed along his back, he allows himself to feel a little smug. The first game he plays in is against VC Kanagawa. He’s not even a little bit nervous. More than anything, he’s eager.

The bus ride ends up being more anxiety-inducing than his debut match. All because Miya Atsumu hauls himself into the seat behind Kiyoomi and leans his arms against the back of Kiyoomi’s headrest, peering over at him with an shit-eating grin.

“Nervous yet, Omi-kun?”

Having many long-suffering practices under his belt, Kiyoomi has learned that the easiest way to deal with Atsumu’s bullshit is by ignoring him. It’s the reaction Atsumu craves beyond all else, and he’s not going to play into his antics.

“Don’t worry,” Atsumu continues, unperturbed, “there’s no way yer gonna miss while I’m settin’ to ya. I always take care of my spikers.”

Kiyoomi pops in his earbuds and closes his eyes, but he can still hear Atsumu’s muffled complaints.

_ “-mi! Rude as fu… Ignorin’ me?!” _

Miya Atsumu is all bark but, the thing is, he’s also got the bite. He’s just as loud on the court as he is off of it, in a way that serves less like a buzzing nuisance and more like a supporting beacon. The rest of the team dances around him, fully confident, and it’s hard to not get caught up in the way the ball hits the center of his palm perfectly every time.

“Still too low?” Atsumu asks him once.

Kiyoomi huffs.

Kanagawa puts up a stronger fight than Kiyoomi was, frankly, expecting. It shouldn’t be surprising, considering they’re all professionals. But when they call in a pinch server that scores two points right out of the gate, the Black Jackals calls their first timeout.

“Omi-san!” Hinata cheers. “That last spike was so cool!”

Bokuto loops an arm around Hinata’s neck. “Now we’ve got two canons on the team, huh, Omi-Omi?”

Kiyoomi will never forgive Atsumu for coining that nickname. 

Like he could read his thoughts, Atsumu slinks up to Kiyoomi’s side. “Rise-kun’s serves gettin’ to ya?”

_ Rise-kun? _

Kiyoomi glares. Something about the nickname sounds wrong. More so than ‘Omi-kun’ but he can’t explain why.

“Oh!” Hinata suddenly perks up. “I forgot you went to high school with Heisuke-san, right?”

Another unfamiliar and unpleasant feeling twinges low in his chest. Kiyoomi furrows his eyebrows when Atsumu nods eagerly. “He’s gotten sharper, but I think I’m noticin’ a pattern.” He leans in close with hand to his mouth like he’s whispering secrets, and it makes Kiyoomi’s shoulders tense. “Once he gets into his groove, he’ll go for a net serve.”

“And how am I supposed to know when he’s in his groove?” Kiyoomi responds a bit harsher than he means to.

Atsumu just smiles easily. “Don’t expect me to share all the answers with ya, Omi.”

“You’re…”

“Hm?”

“Forget it. I’ll cut him off right here.”

The warning whistle ends their timeout. Atsumu looks taken aback for a second then laughs and they walk onto the court together. He takes a deep breath before he lets himself drift back into the game. Then, Heisuke bounces the ball once, testing, and Atsumu’s lofty voice rears back into his memory.  _ Rise-kun. _

When the second whistle blows, Kiyoomi targets the ball as Heisuke serves. It looks powerful, but it’s low, and Kiyoomi is lunging and reaching forward before he can think. The ball smacks off his forearms and pings right back up to where Atsumu is already waiting with expectant hands. He sets to the far left, where Bokuto smashes it to the floor.

The third whistle blows, and Kiyoomi now targets Atsumu’s reaction as the crowd cheers behind them. “Hell yeah!” Atsumu punches the air with an overjoyed smile, like they just won the Olympics instead of gaining a single point while they’re still down by two. “Nice save, Omi-kun!”

The knot in his chest loosens.

Still, if Kiyoomi’s aggressive serves and spikes just  _ happen _ to gravitate towards Heisuke every time he’s on the court, no one says a word about it.

.

“Drinks!” Meian shouts over the excited chatter in the guest locker room. He stands on one of the benches and waves his arms to get everyone’s attention. “First round’s on me!”

The rest of the team answers with approving roars. Kiyoomi zips up his bag and slings it over his shoulder with a frown. He should be able to just quietly slip away to his hotel room and just-

“Omi-san!” Kiyoomi freezes mid-step as Hinata and Bokuto block his path. Hinata crosses his arms. “Wait, aren’t you coming with us?”

Kiyoomi opens his mouth to answer that, _ no, _ he absolutely is not going to spend the rest of his night curled into the corner of some random bar, but Atsumu beats him to it. “Hey, it’s his big night. Let him celebrate however he wants.”

Maybe it's Atsumu’s words, like he somehow thinks he has Kiyoomi all figured out, that makes Kiyoomi says, “Actually. I’m coming, too.”

The bar is even worse than he imagined. The edge is taken off by the fact that he’s familiar with everyone at the table. No one even said anything when Kiyoomi ran in ahead and picked out the table the furthest away from the bar and the shoddy dancefloor. Atsumu parks himself on Kiyoomi’s right and Meian, who quickly orders beers to a flustered waitress, on his left.

“To Sakusa’s debut game and our first win of the season!” Meian toasts, and the team raises their drinks eagerly.

“To a perfect season!” Atsumu adds.

Bokuto laughs. “And to Hinata coming home!”

“And to no broken fingers this time!” Inunaka declares, which is something Kiyoomi is going to have to ask about later.

“Cheers!”

Kiyoomi sips out of politeness, but he still blanches as he lowers his glass. Atsumu laughs, not unkindly, and hands a napkin to him. “Ya’ve got some foam on yer lip.”

Kiyoomi covers his mouth with one hand and reaches for the napkin.

Plate after plate of food appears at their table. Kiyoomi isn’t too keen on greasy food, and he watches in abject horror as Atsumu orders several servings of wings and tears into them with abandon. But not before delicately transferring the accompanying celery sticks onto Kiyoomi’s plate with a fork.

Between munching on Atsumu’s leftover vegetables and watching him religiously clean his fingers with sanitary wipes, Kiyoomi realizes something awful.

Miya Atsumu is  _ nice. _

Out of all of them, he’s probably changed the most since high school. Or, perhaps, Kiyoomi just knew him a little better so the changes stand out a little brighter. Now that he’s thinking about it, Atsumu is the one keeping an eye on everyone. He brings onigiri, he keeps extra salonpas and aspirin in his locker, he steps in when tensions arise between players. He claims it’s for the good of the team, that he wouldn’t be caught dead playing with scrubs, but they’re empty words at this point.

Something in him twinges again, but Kiyoomi sweeps it away, swallows it down with more celery and bleu cheese.

.

If Kiyoomi had any remaining doubts about Atsumu’s character, they’re dashed away one afternoon when Atsumu invites him to lunch. Kiyoomi agrees because he’s hungry and he’s new to the area so he’s curious about where athletes eat.

He really should’ve guessed Atsumu would take him to Onigiri Miya.

“Samu!” Atsumu greets the second they walk in. “Yer favorite customer has arrived!”

Osamu doesn’t turn around as he calls back, “Ya sure don’t sound like Rin.”

“Shut up. I brought a friend. He’s gonna be a new regular.”

Osamu turns, raising an eyebrow, and Kiyoomi gives him a small nod. Osamu glances at his twin, raising the other eyebrow, and they seem to have an entirely silent conversation before Osamu puts on an exaggerated smile. “Sakusa-san! Take a seat. Anywhere ya like. Don’t feel obligated to sit next to Tsumu.”

“Ha, ha,” Atsumu deadpans, plopping down in a stool. Kiyoomi follows suit, sitting beside Atsumu anyways. There aren’t any other customers besides them right now, but the unfamiliar space still makes him a bit wary. That, and Osamu keeps glancing at him with a knowing grin.

“It’s about time he brought ya around,” is all Osamu says, sliding a platter of onigiris toward them without bothering to ask for their order. “Tsumu never shuts up about ya.”

Atsumu’s smile becomes strained. “Don’tcha have a kitchen to clean?”

Osamu tilts his head to the side. “Nope. All spic and span.”

_ “Samu.” _

“Relax. I’m just kiddin’. Holler when yer ready to pay.” With that, he backs into the kitchen, which is really just a partitioned-off part of the same room. Atsumu glares at him the whole way.

Kiyoomi blinks. “What was that?”

Atsumu jumps. “What was what?”

“Did you guys have a fight or something?”

“Of course not. Samu’s just a jerk.”

Kiyoomi nods, even though he follows none of that logic, then lifts an onigiri. “He didn’t even ask what we wanted.”

“Uh. Actually, I asked him to prepare these.” Atsumu won’t meet his gaze. Instead, he twiddles with a pair of plastic chopsticks and stares at the placemat. “Try it.”

This is a new look. Kiyoomi’s never seen Atsumu bashful a day in his life. Yet, there he is, shyly sliding the platter closer to Kiyoomi with a single chopstick. Kiyoomi obliges, biting into the first onigiri even though his throat seems tight and his appetite has vanished.

“Umeboshi?”

Atsumu finally looks at him. “Ya like them, right?”

He snorts. “When I was a teenager, yeah.”

“Oh.” Atsumu tenses, just a little bit, before the cocky smirk plasters over whatever emotion Kiyoomi might’ve glimpsed. “I’ll call the chef back over, I guess.”

“Don’t bother.” Kiyoomi takes another bite. “This is fine.”

Atsumu’s smile softens. “Ah. That’s… cool. Good.” Then, he takes one for himself, bites into it, and immediately shudders. “Yep. Ugh. So good.”

The door jingles, and Atsumu is suddenly stiff as a board.

“Well, what do we have here? Miya Atsumu? In Onigiri Miya? Couldn’t be.”

Atsumu’s jaw jumps as he spins around. “Sunarin. Thought ya said ya weren’t comin’ down this weekend.”

Suna Rintarou shrugs, hands stuffed in his pockets and a sly glint in his eyes. “What? And miss out on spending some quality time with my  _ best  _ friend?”

“That’s such crap. Ya knew I was…” Atsumu’s eyes flicker down. “What the  _ fuck? _ Are those my shoes?”

“You’re the one who left them at Osamu’s.” Suna turns to Kiyoomi. “Hello, again.”

Confused, Kiyoomi just raises a hand.

Suna walks past. “Anyways. Don’t mind me. I’m just here for lunch.” Osamu peers around the corner, face pinched like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. “Oh, wow, Miya Osamu? In Onigiri Miya? I just put that together.”

Atsumu covers his eyes with a groan.

“Rin,” Osamu chokes, “can I, uh, get a hand back here?”

“Sure.” Suna slinks behind the counter and grins. “You kids have fun.”

_ Oh, God, _ Kiyoomi thinks dimly,  _ they’re all the same. _

Atsumu exhales and grabs another onigiri, half-folded over the counter like he’s about to drop. Usually, silence doesn’t bother Kiyoomi. He prefers not having to carry on obligatory conversations just for the sake of politeness. But the words bubble out of him anyways. “So… did you watch the Adlers match last night?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “Ya still keep in touch with Ushiwaka?”

Kiyoomi shrugs. “Sometimes.”

Atsumu hums. “I can’t wait to show Smug Kageyama our new team. We’re gonna crush them.”

“Of course we are,” he affirms. “We’ve got the better setter.”

“Omi!” Atsumu bats his eyelashes. “I  _ am _ the better setter, aren’t I?”

“Don’t ruin it.”

“Nope. Ya finally said it. I knew ya’d see my tal-” Someone clears their throat loudly in the kitchen and Atsumu sputters. “I-I mean…  _ You.” _

“Me?”

“What d’ya get up to when yer not tryin’ to break a pinch server’s arms?”

_ He noticed,  _ Kiyoomi thinks with a sliver of shame. “Not much. I go to the gym. Watch matches.”

“Yer really a volleyball nut, huh?”

“Like you’re any different?”

Atsumu beams. “Never said that, Omi-kun, but surely there’s  _ somethin’ _ outside of volleyball ya like?”

Kiyoomi takes another onigiri before answering. “I bake sometimes.”

“Bake?” Atsumu parrots, eyes wide. “I  _ love _ baking!”

Maniacal laughter bursts from the kitchen. Atsumu turns cherry red and glares at the doorway. “OH, SHUDDAP, SAMU.”

The laughter doubles, followed by the clatter of falling pots, and Kiyoomi frowns. “And here I thought you were the dumb one.”

If possible, Atsumu’s face darkens but the corners of his mouth tilt upwards. Feeling awkward again, Kiyoomi blindly reaches for another onigiri only to grasp Atsumu’s fingers instead. They jerk apart. “S-sorry!” Atsumu pipes. “Ya can take the last one.”

Kiyoomi takes it, but he hardly registers the taste as his brain tries to process why he’s not more freaked out that their hands touched and burying down the warmth that’s growing in his chest.

Osamu and Suna reappear as the conversation lulls. “Tsumu,” Osamu says gleefully, “ya should bake something for Sakusa. Yanno. Since yer  _ such _ a big baker.”

Atsumu laughs through his teeth. “Nah. I wouldn’t want Omi feelin’ bad about his own cooking.”

Kiyoomi wipes his mouth with a napkin and glowers. “I’ll take you up on that challenge.”

Atsumu blanches. “Huh?”

“We’ll see who the better baker is.”

Suna brings his hands together like he’s praying. “This was absolutely worth the two hour train ride.”

Two days later, Atsumu arrives to practice with a tupperware container. “They’re blondies,” he says, shoving the plastic into Kiyoomi’s chest.

Kiyoomi opens the tupperware and grimaces. “What the fuck is wrong with them?”

Atsumu’s face pinches. “I dunno what ya mean.”

“They’re black. Aren’t blondies supposed to be, well,  _ blonde?” _

“WHATEVER.” Atsumu reaches for the container. “I changed my mind! I don’t want ya to eat them!”

Kiyoomi twists away from Atsumu’s hands, a single laugh escaping him as he takes in Atsumu’s pout. “Shut up,” he says, not missing the way Atsumu immediately goes still before he takes a bite.

He spends the rest of the day in gastric distress, but he can’t bring himself to completely regret it.

.

Within just a few months, Kiyoomi thinks he’s settled into his new life. Despite the one very unstable factor that constantly makes him two-parts annoyed and one-part anxious and all-parts confused.

“Omi!” A hand grasps his shoulder, squeezing slightly as the other hand shoves a phone into his face. “Look at us! We’re trendin’.”

Kiyoomi pulls back enough to glare at Miya Atsumu’s smug face, which gets even smugger, and then complies. The tweet contains a video of their most recent game, spliced to only the times Kiyoomi spikes.  **proof that miya sets to sakusa the most,** the tweet above reads.  **is it weird to be emotional after miya and sakusa clap each other on the backs??**

_ Yes,  _ he thinks quickly. “Other people actually take the time to count this stuff?”

Atsumu lowers his arm and shrugs. “Maybe I should start mixin’ it up. Else I might get too predictable.”

Kiyoomi frowns. “Nonsense.” Atsumu glances at him. “If you think I’ll score the point, then toss it to me. I’ll get the point.”

“Omi,” Atsumu murmurs, delighted, “I had no idea ya had so much faith in us!”

Kiyoomi snorts. “Don’t say it like that, dumbass.”

Atsumu laughs, moving to follow Kiyoomi out of the locker room and keeping in stride with him. He doesn’t stop looking at Kiyoomi as they go, shit-eating grin on and eyes narrowed. “So, any plans this weekend?”

Kiyoomi smiles behind his mask, but pinches his eyebrows together. Atsumu isn’t the only one becoming too predictable. He knows Atsumu has picked up on his expressions more than most, so he’s had to mix it up, too. The mask provides good cover. “No.”

Atsumu lifts his chin as they exit the gym. “Dinner? We can talk more about how much ya like bein’ my favorite spiker.”

“As much as I would  _ love _ to spend another evening watching you bully your brother into giving us free food,” Kiyoomi mutters, “I’ll pass.”

“What?” Atsumu pouts. “C’mon! Ya love bullyin’ Samu, too. Don’t even try to deny it!”

Kiyoomi slows to a stop, right in the middle of the sidewalk. Atsumu copies him, eyes wide and chin now tucked into his scarf. “How about something different?”

The wind picks up, shuffling some snow off the trees and ruffling Atsumu’s hair. It’s getting longer. Kiyoomi’s fingers itch to put it back in its place. “Different?” Atsumu repeats. “What did’ja have in mind?”

Kiyoomi shrugs. “Surprise me,” is all he says before walking again.

Atsumu sputters. He jogs to catch up. “Wait a minute, Omi! Ya’ve never been the one to make plans before!”

“Technically, you’re still making the plans.”

“Okay, but - SHIT!” he breaks off with a garbled shout and Kiyoomi hears him smack the pavement. He turns quickly, half-worried and half-amused when he sees Atsumu sitting up and holding his shoulder. “Fuckin’ ice.”

“Are you okay?” Kiyoomi backtracks to extend a hand. The warmth that passes between them as Kiyoomi pulls him to his feet doesn’t surprise him anymore. It’s been like this for a while. Whenever Kiyoomi touches Atsumu, there’s just warmth. No icy panic or prickling irritation. Just quiet.

Atsumu nods. “My body’s fine, but I think I just shattered whatever was left of my pride.”

“That’s a win-win, then.”

They walk in companionable silence after that. Kiyoomi isn’t blind or ignorant. He’s never had a crush before, but he knows what’s happening between them. It doesn’t have a known start or even a clear line of progression. It’s just momentum that’s slowly been built on stolen glances and subtle smiles. Atsumu takes it upon himself to keep the rowdier players in line, which is ironic because Atsumu himself is one of the rowdiest people Kiyoomi has ever met. But he’s observant and diligent: he routinely saves Kiyoomi from unwanted interviews, he regularly checks in with Bokuto’s extra practices, and he often safeguards Hinata from shady players that look like they’re either about to assault him or hug him. Miya Atsumu is loud and confident and maybe a bit conceited. But for every ounce of love he has for himself, he gives double back to those he cares for.

Kiyoomi, at first, was startled to be one of those people.

Atsumu hums in thought, arms crossed and eyes closed. Kiyoomi nudges him when they approach another icy patch. “How about Saturday night, then?” he asks as he steps around it.

Kiyoomi shrugs.

“I’ll text ya the time whenever I figure out where I’m takin’ ya, then.” He grins up at Kiyoomi, confident and nervous at the same time. “Nowhere crowded. If ya hate it, we go to Samu’s.”

Kiyoomi, now, is honored to be one of those people.

“It’s a wonder he even lets you in his restaurant,” he mutters.

“Bah. He likes when I come by.”

“How are you so sure?”

Atsumu grins, tapping his forehead with his pointer finger. “Twin stuff.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Sure.” He isn’t sure what Atsumu and Osamu are trying to pull with their so-called ‘twin telepathy.’ It’s all bullshit, proven many times by all the times they’ve failed to accurately guess how many fingers they hid behind their backs. 

“It’s true!” Atsumu asserts, every time.

“Uh huh,” Kiyoomi mutters, every time.

They part ways for the night, and Kiyoomi finds himself looking up at the clouds. Grey, murky, heavy. It rained yesterday, it rained today, and it’ll probably rain tomorrow. Any snow melts before long, but ice still clings to the ground in clusters here and there. Every time he passes a patch, he thinks of Atsumu, of Saturday, and of the growing sense that he’s about to fall over the edge of something.

.

The next morning, Kiyoomi wakes up to a single text from Atsumu:  **i’ll pick u up around 8 on saturday !! dress warm !**

True to his word, Miya Atsumu shows up at Kiyoomi’s apartment at eight o’clock sharp Saturday night. He’s dressed in a thick down coat and hiking boots with a red beanie and matching scarf wrapped twice around his neck. Kiyoomi takes one look and asks, with utter horror, “Are we going hiking? At eight in the evening?”

Atsumu beams and raises his gloved hands like he actually expects Kiyoomi to high-five them. “Omi, has anyone ever told ya that yer really smart?”

Not smart enough, apparently, as he takes in his own clothes. He’s dressed for a nice dinner not a walk in the woods. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re completely batshit?”

“Weekly,” he replies. “Trust me, Omi. I promise it’ll be worth it.”

Kiyoomi huffs. “Wait here. I need to change.”

Atsumu steps into the apartment with wide eyes, head moving like he doesn’t know where to look. “It’s so normal.”

“What were you expecting?”

Atsumu laughs nervously. “Yanno those freaky retro-style homes where everything is plastic-wrapped?”

Kiyoomi holds up a hand. “Stop. I don’t want to hear anymore. Just sit on the couch while I change and try not to break anything.”

Atsumu salutes him and goes to sit on the sofa, still looking bewildered at the pictures on the wall and the pillows on the couch. Kiyoomi would be more offended if he wasn’t already so confused as to why they were going hiking so late.

When Kiyoomi returns, properly dressed, Atsumu hasn’t moved an inch. He’s just drumming his hands on his thighs. A nervous tic, Kiyoomi realizes because he does that, too. He adjusts his wool gloves and declares, “Okay. I’m ready to freeze to death.”

.

Kiyoomi’s anxiety starts to kick up the moment Atsumu pulls into an overgrown gravel lot that looks more like a ditch than a parking space. “Miya,” he manages to say evenly, “why did you drive me an hour to show me a future murder site?”

Atsumu cracks up. “Always so pessimistic. Would it kill ya to have a bit more faith in me?”

“Maybe,” Kiyoomi answers honestly. He isn’t sure what to call the storm of emotions that thrash and churn every time Atsumu gets too close or too far, but it’s definitely  _ too much. _ He’s never been good at naming his feelings. If he lets those words start to take shape, it might  _ actually  _ kill him.

“Cryptic,” Atsumu says like he approves and then cuts the engine. He reaches behind the driver’s seat to pull out a battered red duffle bag and says, “Time to walk.”

Thankfully, it’s a short hike on a paved pathway. Atsumu lights the way, walking confidently despite the fact that the woods around them are pitch black. Kiyoomi stays closer than he’d ever admit, enough that he clutches onto Atsumu’s sleeve when there’s a sudden noise in the darkness.

Atsumu laughs brightly. “It’s just a stick fallin’, Omi.”

“Shut up, Miya. You’re the one that brought us out here.”

“I swear I have a reason that’s not murder.”

Kiyoomi huffs. “I can’t promise the same.”

Eventually, they come to a clearing. It’s a wooden lookout with benches around the perimeter. As Atsumu steers them closer, Kiyoomi mutters, “I’m not sitting on that.”

In lieu of a reply, Atsumu swivels the duffle from his back to his side and pulls out a thick blanket. He drapes it over the bench and sits, patting the spot next to him. Kiyoomi sits next to him. Waits. Listens to Atsumu rifling through his bag again.

“Swedish Fish?”

Kiyoomi blinks at the proffered bag. “You dragged me all the way out the boonies to eat gummy candy in the dark?”

Atsumu snorts. “Yes, Omi. My master plan all along has been to eat shitty food with ya.” He pops a Swedish Fish in his mouth, wipes his hands on his jeans, and points above them. “Look up.”

Kiyoomi does, and, “Oh.”

The sky is alive. Specks of light layered on light. Subtle blues and soft whites and slight reds edged around each star, and the longer he looks the more he sees. A faint glow of the Milky Way, the curve of the crescent moon, even the slow drag of distant airplanes seems otherworldly. Then, there’s a streak of light, gone just as quickly as it came.

“The meteor shower,” he murmurs, remembering some weather report about it, and looks down.

Atsumu’s grin is smug, as if he’d been the one to hang every star or flipped on heaven’s lightswitch just for him. Kiyoomi takes a Swedish Fish and settles in.

“Ya ever try to count all the stars?”

Kiyoomi frowns. “Why would anyone even do that?”

“Samu and I used to see who could count higher,” he says, suddenly wistful. “Back home, the stars were always bright like this. No city lights to keep ‘em away.”

“Who won?”

“Me, of course.”

“Of course,” he mutters sarcastically before taking in the view again. Another meteor soars past them, and, though it’s burning hundreds of thousands of miles above them, Kiyoomi swears he can still feel its heat.

“Wanna try?” Atsumu asks. It sounds off. Loaded. Like he’s asking for more than a friendly competition.

Kiyoomi's never tried to count the stars because once he starts something, he never stops. He'd stare at the sky until the end of time. The same concept applies to falling in love.

Kiyoomi isn't a romantic. He knows nothing about relationships or love, but he knows something’s building between them. Every traded glance, each late phone call, all the dinners and extra practices turn into bricks that they stack up together, firm and unshakeable. Kiyoomi meets Atsumu's bashful grin and doesn't see the sun or moon or anything soft like that. He sees a supernova; a violent force that bursts new color into the universe, an explosion that promises the end of however Kiyoomi's lived before and the beginning of  _ something _ .

Their hands brush and Kiyoomi lets his own fall back to his side. A moment later, Atsumu's hand bumps his wrist and stubbornly stays there until he threads their fingers together. Kiyoomi takes a deep breath, looks up at the night sky, and starts to count.  _ One, two, three, four… _

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I deleted this by accident. I apologize to anyone who already commented/subscribed!! I appreciated it a lot. <3
> 
> There will be one more part!!
> 
> On [twitter](https://twitter.com/ghostystarr) now!


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